Mia Hayes - Always Yours, Bee

Always Yours, Bee is a work of nonfiction. Some names and identifying details have been changed.

First FinnStar Publishing edition 2021

Copyright 2021 by Mia Hayes

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

To write this book, I relied heavily on my and my husbands Facebook posts, our family photographs, my blog entries (that Ive since deleted), the legal documents, my family, and my admittedly flawed memory. It is important to note that when writing about events pertaining to my immediate family, I did inquire about their differing memories of the same situations, and I used these blended recollections to better flesh out what actually happened.

I have changed the names of all the individuals in this book, and in some situations, I obscured details to preserve anonymity. I have also created composite characters in the case of my friends, as writing about every friend individually would become unwieldy. Any event and person I felt did not contribute to the substance of the story, I omitted.

While writing this memoir, I learned the stories I told myself publicly and privately were more complicated than I realized. Ive attempted to be truthful with myself, even when that truth was ugly, and I believe Ive written the truest form of my story and memories that I can.

November 2004

Lemonade light filtered through the fog, casting a warm, golden tone across us as we watched Ryan run down the empty beach, a kite string clenched in his tiny fist.

November usually brought rain to San Francisco, but this particular day was clear, and we wanted to take advantage of the suneven if it was chilly and damp out. Surfers bobbed off the coast, waiting for their ride, and gulls skittered along the shoreline. Later, after we ate our picnic lunch, we planned on exploring the tide pools.

James snapped a picture of Leo and me snuggled into a fleecy blanket. I waved him over to us, and he settled into the sand, his jean-clad leg touching mine. He tossed his arm over my shoulder and hugged me close.

This is nice, he said. Ryan had stopped running to inspect something on the beach, and Leo crawled off my lap into the sand. But this is more fun. James turned and tried to tickle me through my layers of bulky clothes.

We laughed and smiled and were so very happy.

Thats how I want to remember us.

Golden.

1

N ovember 23rd, 2010

Why wasnt my phone ringing? She said seven thirty.

Relentless late-November rain battered the trio of windows behind me. It was nearly eight in the morning, two days before Thanksgiving, and I sat in the tiny family room of my San Francisco flat trying not to envision every reason why my phone was silent. Had she realized I was a hack and changed her mind?

Relax, no one is ever on time.

I opened the well-worn notebook in my lap and studied the questions my husband, James, and I had excitedly crafted the night before. Earlier that year, I had signed with a New York literary agent, and now an editor wanted to talk to me.

My writing had been squeezed in during sports practices and after the boys went to bed. James traveled frequently for work, and I often stayed up well past midnight to write despite long days of work, volunteering, and mothering.

I hadnt mentioned my new passion to James until I received three offers of representation the day I submitted the manuscript to agents. He had been baffled that I had had time to write a full-length novel but not surprised that I had actually written a novel. As he put it, it was a very me thing to do.

I stared at my blank phone screen. Why hadnt she called?

In an explosive burst of boy-noise, Ryan, my nine-year-old son, sprinted into the room and flopped on the end of the couch. His Catholic school uniform shirt was untucked, and his two blond cowlicks stuck straight up. I glanced at his feet. No socks or shoes.

Can Grandma get me a bagel? He gave me a hopeful, missing-tooth smile.

I set my notebook aside. Did you ask Grandma?

She said if it was okay with you. Ill even ask her to get one for Tate and Leo, too.

I chuckled. Do you really think Grandma would walk you all to school, get only you Boudins, and leave your brothers hungry?

Ryan shrugged.

Go finish getting ready, and if you have time, Grandma can get all of you bagels.

Ryan leaped off the sofa and raced past James standing in the doorway of our family room.

Hey! No hugs? James called after Ryan.

Sorry! Ryan threw his arms around Jamess torso. Love you!

James rubbed the back of Ryans head. I love you, too.

Ryan broke free and his footsteps thundered down the stairs. We can get bagels!

Our front door slammed, followed by my in-laws door closing. They lived in the flat below and often helped care for the boys. My mother-in-law, Molly, worked at their Catholic schoolthe same one both she and James had attended.

I was immensely proud that my boys were the fifth generation of Jamess family to live in our three-story house, and I planned on never leaving. James had grown up there and so had Molly, and now it was the boys turn. Molly and Joe, my father-in-law, lived in the second-level flat, and my family lived in the third level. The garage and a small in-law unit occupied the ground floor.

Jamess family roots ran deep in San Francisco, a park was even named after them, and I wore it as part of my identity. We were the Doyles from 11th Avenue (even though we were now the Suttons), and that meant something in our small community.

Molly and Joe were good sports about allowing me to put my own stamp on the house, going along with whatever my current obsession was. When I said I wanted to be a modern homesteader and turn our deep backyard into an organic city farm with fruit trees, bees, and chickens, they didnt blink, and they let James buy me a chicken coop for our anniversary.

No matter what my current obsession waslike starting an online shopping site, becoming a personal shopper, or taking on the task of revamping our school and churchs annual festivalJames supported me. I was a whirlwind, and he was the calm hand that steadied the ship.